The morning sea was no longer blue.
It was gray, white, and bronze, covered by a dense forest of wooden hulls and floating pontoon forts stretching past the southern horizon.
The last of the fifty thousand defectors from the outer island garrisons arrived before noon. They came in heavy barges, swift patrol cutters, and rickety fishing sloops, their white surrender flags fluttering in the salty breeze. Every dock was packed with soldiers unloading crates of cold-iron bolts, sacks of spirit rice, and dull bronze armor.
Deacon Vane stood on the eastern pier with an ink brush tucked behind his ear.
“Name and former station,” Vane called out, stamping a wooden registration token.
“Captain Wu, Seventh Outer Auxiliary Bastion,” a burly man replied, setting his curved saber on the inspection table. “Two hundred men under my command, all present. None of us have tasted grain since the new moon.”
Vane handed him a brass tag and pointed toward the rear encampment. “Report to depot four for hot congee and dry cloaks. Your men will be assigned to coastal patrol duty by sunset.”
Across the cobblestone quayside, Barnaby Holt was directing a team of logistics runners.
